


Am I Waiting to Break?

by emraldmoon



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Black Widow - Freeform, Captain America - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Hawkeye - Freeform, Hulk - Freeform, Iron Man - Freeform, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Poor Peter Parker, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, falcon - Freeform, spiderman - Freeform, spiderson, war machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 05:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18088586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emraldmoon/pseuds/emraldmoon
Summary: Peter has anxiety. Luckily, he also has a group of Avengers to help him through.





	Am I Waiting to Break?

Peter was exhausted.

Well, no, actually - he was wide awake.

There was a nervous energy coursing through his veins, one that made him want to run a marathon and scream from the mountaintops. But at the same time, every single movement exhausted him, made his breathing heavy.

His skin was crawling with nervous tingles and his heartbeat was switching between beating precariously fast, and tantalizingly slow. He wanted to stretch out wide and curl into a ball all at once.

His hair was falling in his eyes and he - he couldn’t stand it. He stood from his couch and walked to the elevator - no, that was too slow. He had too much _energy_.

He started full-out sprinting, which was a bad choice for the small distance he had to cover, sliding to a stop just before crashing into the doors. He quickly pressed the _up_ button and switched his weight from foot to foot as he awaited the elevator, eyes searching the room, for what, he wasn’t sure.

 _“Are you alright, Peter?”_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. asked, startling Peter. He inhaled deeply.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great, Fri, thanks.”

_“Your heartbeat and breathing is elevated.”_

Peter stilled - but only momentarily, the nervous energy returning and causing him to bounce on the balls of his feet. His heartbeat and breathing was elevated. _Why?_

_“Should I alert Mr. Stark?”_

“No,” Peter exclaimed, just a tad too loud - but it felt good to get the words out. To _scream_. To release energy.

His hands had flown to his opposite forearms and he was scratching back and forth, trying to instigate some kind of feeling, some kind of response.

“Sorry, Fri, no, don’t bother him with this. I think I’m just tired.”

_“Mr. Stark wanted you to alert him of any anxiety-induced activity.”_

“This isn’t anxiety-induced.” Gosh, where was that _freaking elevator_? “I’m just tired. Thanks, though, Fri.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. didn’t say anything else as the elevator doors finally opened in front of Peter and he practically ran in, eager for the chance to stretch the pins and needles out of his legs after waiting for so long.

But he regretted the eagerness soon after when the elevator doors shut behind him, confining him in the small space.

Suddenly, Peter felt it hard to breathe.

He started walking in tight circles around the elevator, his breathing coming out in shuttering gasps as his hands found his way to his hair, entangled themselves inside his curls, and scratched his own scalp. It provided _some_ comfort, some feeling, but the elevator was still going _too slow_.

What made him think this was a good idea?

_“Peter, please allow me to call Mr. Stark.”_

“No,” Peter exhaled quietly, reversing his steps to start walking the other way. His head momentarily spun at the sudden change of direction, but his legs were anxious to _keep moving_. “Fri, I’m okay, really.”

Peter had experienced this before. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what caused it, but he had gone through it enough times to know not to panic. It wasn’t too bad - it would pass.

Finally, after a few more painstaking seconds, the elevator doors opened and Peter spilled out into the hall, taking a huge, gasping breath at the sudden fresh air.

But he _couldn’t get enough_.

Suddenly, he wasn’t getting enough air into his lungs. He was _breathing_ , he knew he was, but the breaths felt thin. Like he was too high in the atmosphere.

 _I’m so glad no one else is in the tower_ , Peter thought gratefully as he collapsed on the floor in a ball, hands clutching his chest.

The rest of the Avengers were out on a mission, but Tony felt it was too big of a threat for Peter to jump in on, and made him stay behind.

Peter’s head was racing with thoughts. _Was he going to die here? Would Tony come home to find him dead?_

 _Oh, gosh, he was so weak. No wonder Tony didn’t want him on the mission_.

Peter’s breath still wouldn’t let up. He felt like there was an elastic band around his lungs, squeezing tight, restricting his breath, and no matter how deeply he inhaled he just _couldn’t get enough air_. He felt like he was drowning within himself.

With one final bracing semi-breath, Peter detangled himself from the pile of limbs and shakily pushed himself to his feet, stumbling a tad. He wasn’t breathing properly, but he didn’t know when that would let up. He just had to continue on anyways, and if he suffocated mid-step, so be it.

His heartbeat quickened for _no good reason_ when he resumed his walking.

 _There’s something chasing you_.

 _Shut up_ , Peter argued back against the voice in his head, but he _did_ think he heard footsteps.

And growling.

Peter quickened his steps until he was full-out sprinting into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a slam.

 _Idiot_ , he told himself scornfully. _There’s nothing chasing you. You’re so dumb. So childish._

Peter turned to the mirror to see himself - his pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, crazy hair sticking up in all directions.

Oh, gosh. Was he _supposed_ to be that pale? Were his eyes _supposed_ to be that red?

 _This is it_ , he thought, collapsing to his knees beside the cupboards beneath the sink. _I have cancer. I’m gonna die._

As if on cue, Peter’s heart sped up dangerously quick. He felt it pounding in his ears as a strand of hair fell onto his face, startling him.

_What the heck is on my head?_

He brought a hand up, ready to pull it away if the substance in question began to move or _crawl_ or something ( _what if it was a spider?)_ , but sighed deeply as his eyes fluttered closed when he realized it was just a stray hair.

 _Nice going, Parker, you doofus_.

Peter’s legs were fine now, albeit tired from all the sprinting. No, the pins and needles had instead moved to his _arms_.

Peter scratched at his opposite arm hastily, trying to calm down. Trying to calm the _heck_ down.

_Why was he so stressed out?_

Oh, gosh. He was a failure and he was going to die alone.

_Damn, that escalated quickly._

The hair fell onto his forehead again.

Geez, he had to get rid of this _stupid hair_.

Maybe he should shave it off.

No. No, that was such a _stupid_ idea.

Maybe he could just gel it back.

Yeah, that would work.

Peter stood up so fast his head spun and he had to grip the counter and squeeze his eyes shut until the dancing black spots disappeared from his vision.

He reached into the drawer just underneath the sink and quickly pulled out the hair gel, dumping a thick pile onto his hand before rubbing it hastily into his hair.

 _Oh, no, wait - it was too much_.

Tony was going to _kill_ him. He was such a waste of resources.

And time.

And money.

And love.

And he was going to die alone.

_Come on, Peter, really? That thought again?_

Before he knew it Peter’s hair was a giant, slicked-back _mess_ . The gel was lying thick across every area, even dripping down the sides of his face at certain points, and he widened his eyes when he saw what a _mess_ he had made.

Oh geez, oh gosh, _oh geez-_

Peter hurried to turn on the tap and attempt to duck his head under the cascading water, scrubbing all over his head in a vain attempt to scrub out all the gel, but it _wasn’t going anywhere_ , and now Peter’s hands were covered in gel and his hair was covered in gel and the sink was covered in gel and the entire _bathroom_ was covered in gel and-

“Peter, we’re ba- Pete, what the _fuck_?”

Suddenly Peter felt hands gripping his shoulders and pulling him back out of the sink and into a corresponding body. First Peter fought - the grip was too _restricting_ \- but suddenly he realized, the pins and needles were gone. The thoughts were gone. The storm was _over_.

Because he was in the arms of his dad, of Tony Stark, of his security blanket, of his source of comfort, of the one thing he cared about and _loved_ most in the world.

And that was all too much.

He began to cry.

“Peter - _whoa_ , bud, what happened?”

Peter just shook his head and sobbed harder, turning his face into Tony’s chest. It seemed he could never get close enough to the older man, even though Tony had both arms wrapped tightly around his kid, cradling him in his lap.

Tony shushed Peter quietly as he rocked them back and forth.

Peter guessed he should’ve been feeling bad for drenching Tony’s shirt, for drenching _Tony_ , with his wet, gel-coated hair, with his _tears_ , but he _didn’t_. All that he cared about, at that very moment, was being able to be held in Tony’s arms.

Peter heard movement at the door every now and then - probably the rest of the Avengers coming to check and see what was going on, but Tony dismissed each and every one with a few quiet words and they went on their way.

After ten minutes that felt equivalent to an hour in Peter’s mind, he sniffled quietly and began to pull away from Tony - but Tony wasn’t ready to let his kid go yet. He kept his arms around Peter, only shifting them slightly so they were now leaning back against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Peter sniffled, starting to run a hand anxiously through his hair, but stopping and holding it in front of his face when he was reminded of what a _mess_ he had created.

The storm had passed, but the destruction still remained.

“Just tell me what happened, kid,” Tony murmured in response as Peter sniffled again and quiet tears began to fall.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Please, try to explain, kid, I want to help you. I’m _worried_ ,” Tony sighed, anxiety starting to act up.

Peter shook his head quickly.

“I don’t know, I was just tired, and then frustrated, and then-”

Peter collapsed into tears, letting his head fall onto Tony’s shoulder, and it took all Tony had not to shrink away at how cold and… _slimy_ it was?

“Shh, Peter, breathe, okay?” Peter followed the instructions, but his shoulders were still rising and falling with alarming weight. “How about some simple questions? Yes or no, stuff like that?”

He felt Peter nod against his shoulder and let out a quiet breath, deciding what to ask first.

“Was there someone else here?” A shake of the head. “Just you?” A nod. So it wasn’t any kind of _attack_.

“Do you know what caused this panic?” Shake. So it must’ve been something Peter conjured himself. A battle of his own mind.

Tony knew Peter hadn’t been in his best mental state lately, but he didn’t know exactly _where_ his kid was at, and thus had difficulty helping him find his way out.

“What’s this in your hair, Pete?”

A sniffle, then- “Hair gel.”

“Why hair gel?” Tony couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Peter with his hair gelled back. Peter _hated_ that. He hated constriction in any way, even if it was just pinning a strand of hair to his head.

“It kept getting in the way.” Peter’s voice was quiet, soft, like he couldn’t exert any energy to speak any louder than that.

“Getting in the way of what, Petey?”

“I - I don’t _know_.”

Tony just nodded his head slightly, more to himself than to Peter. Easier questions, then.

“What were you doing in the sink?”

“Washing it out.”

He voiced the thought exactly as it came to his head.

“Why would you wash out the gel right after putting it in?”

“Didn’t like it.”

Yeah. The whole _constricting_ thing. But why was there gel in the _first_ place?

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony called, barely above a whisper. Of course, she heard.

_“Yes, Sir?”_

“Do you have any footage of the tower in the last hour?”

Almost immediately a blue screen flashed in front of the pair, and Peter began to tremble slightly under Tony’s arm.

“No, don’t - don’t watch it.”

Tony immediately called for the video to be paused.

“Why not, Pete?” His mind went to what _he_ used to do when he was home alone, what he would’ve rather died than had his parents see (Maria, at least. He couldn’t care less what Howard thought of him). Though, he knew Peter was too innocent for any of that.

“Embarrassing.”

“Why is it embarrassing, Pete?” _And why can’t you form coherent sentences?_

The next word was spoke quietly, under his breath, like part of Peter was hoping it went unheard.

“Childish.”

“I won’t judge you, kiddo.” Peter didn’t respond. “I just want to help you. Will you let me watch the video, please?”

Finally, Peter nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.

He had lived what happened. He didn’t need to see it repeated…

or Tony’s disappointed reaction afterwards at how _stupid_ he was. Just a kid, indeed.

The video resumed, audio playing on a volume so just the two could hear it, and none of the others in the tower. The sound didn’t even escape the bathroom.

Tony watched from above as the Peter of about half an hour ago sat on the couch, flipping through one of the newer physics books Tony had brought home for him in the last week, when suddenly he bolted up and sprinted for the elevator. Tony’s eyes squinted in confusion.

“Pause. Peter, what happened there?” The video answered his command (or, more so, F.R.I.D.A.Y. answered) and he worriedly turned his gaze to his kid. Did Peter hear a noise? A villain or something?

Again, Peter just shook his head.

Tony was beginning to get frustrated.

Didn’t Peter understand Tony was trying to _help_ him? But Tony couldn’t _do_ anything if he didn’t even know what the problem was.

 _“Sir, if you’d like my assistance,”_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. pitched in, and Tony turned back to the blue hologram in surprise, finding it easier to focus his attention there rather than speaking to the open air.

“Yeah, Fri, if you have an answer.” Tony doubted she would. What did she know about what was going on in Peter’s mind?

_“Peter’s heartbeat and breathing sped up rapidly, seemingly out of nowhere, and he was fidgeting and bouncing on the balls of his feet. I suggested an anxiety-induced reaction, but Peter seemed adamant that wasn’t the case.”_

Tony sighed quietly to himself at how much he had underestimated F.R.I.D.A.Y., at how much she had exceeded his expectations. “I forgot I made you this smart.”

_“I heard that.”_

He ignored her, and focused back on the video, telling it to “Resume play.” On any other day he would have _loved_ to verbally spar with her - it was one of his favourite ways to wind down after a mission (which he had forgotten he had just returned from one) - but right now his only care was _Peter_.

The video resumed and Tony watched his kid fidget anxiously, look around like he was constantly on the watch for something, walk in circles that made Tony dizzy, break into sprints at random times, collapse against the cupboard that was opposite the pair now, and finally, the hair gel.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. had kept up with his progress throughout the house easily, and, once again, Tony was grateful for putting up cameras everywhere, for making an A.I. so smart she could look after his kid when Tony wasn’t around to.

Finally, the video came to an end, and Tony turned to stare at his kid, who was shaking against his side.

“Do you have anything to say, Pete?” Tony murmured, scared of it coming out like something a teacher would say to a misbehaving student, but he knew he had accurately got his message across when Peter shakily readjusted himself so his weight was no longer on Tony.

“I don’t know what happened,” he whispered, bringing up a gel-covered hand to wipe his eyes. Tony hurriedly caught his wrist, instead reaching atop the counter to grab a tissue and provide that instead.

“Let’s not touch anything until we get all this gel off, okay?” he muttered, helping the kid clean the slick substance off his hands. Geez, how much had he _used_?

Half way through wiping off his face, Peter continued.

“My legs were shaking, and there was this kind of nervous energy and I - I just wanted to _run_.”

Tony nodded, watching his kid with sympathy. He had heard about these kind of nervous reactions. They usually only happened after some kind of event, though - something happening to trigger them. He had never heard of them just happening out of the blue.

He made a mental note to research them after - find out how to deal with them, what level of anxiety they were at.

“And for some reason I felt like something was… was _chasing_ me.” It felt childish to admit, but Peter trudged on. “And I know there was nothing there because the tower’s so _safe_ , but my heartbeat sped up and I swear I _heard_ it-” Peter cut himself off with a shuddering breath, and Tony moved his hand down to squeeze Peter’s fingers gently.

“Breathe, kiddo, just like that. You got it.”

Peter nodded. The support felt nice.

It gave him the courage to continue.

“I got really tired again and couldn’t hold myself up, so I just… _collapsed_ . And then I felt my hair on my forehead and it frustrated me _so much_ so I wanted to gel it back but there was _too much gel_ and- and-”

Peter couldn’t continue. He began to cry, turning his head to sob into Tony’s shoulder, and Tony let him, holding him close.

“I know, kid. I know you hate hair gel.”

Peter nodded into his shoulder as Tony pulled him closer into his side. He felt so _bad_ for his kid. He wished he could take it all away.

Gosh, Peter was being so _strong_ , so brave - going through all he had at such a young age, that couldn’t have been easy-

“I’m so sorry.”

The cracked voice that emitted from the boy at Tony’s side practically shattered his heart, and Tony rushed to tilt his head so he would’ve been looking his kid in the eyes - if they weren’t squeezed shut.

“Peter,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Why are you _sorry_?”

“I’m so childish,” he continued on without hesitation. Like he had thought of these words before. Rehearsed them.

The thought sent Tony spiraling.

“That was a dumb reaction, and I wasted all your hair gel, and now I’m crying into your shoulder, and I’m _fifteen_ , I should be _stronger_ than this-”

“No. Stop,” Tony hurried to console gently. “Peter. Look at me, please.”

The boy’s eyes cracked open and turned to face Tony, showing him they were rimmed with red and held pain strong enough to make a grown man cry. Heck, it _was_ making a grown man cry. At this very moment.

“Peter, you are so, _so_ strong,” he whispered, awestruck at the pure _strength_ this kid, _his_ kid, held. “I know it doesn’t feel that way, but it certainly _looks_ that way to everyone else. Pete, you are the strongest kid I know.” Peter looked down, a blush creeping up onto his cheeks. Gently, Tony placed two fingers under his chin and lifted it so Peter’s doe eyes met Tony’s own.

“And I’m proud to call you my son.”

Peter burst into tears and collapsed into Tony’s arms, but this time, holding his kid felt different than how it had earlier. This time it felt more supported. More comforted. More _loved_.

Tony cherished the feeling of his kid in his arms, of being to hold his boy and protect him from anything.

He had never known his entire world could fit in his arms.

When Tony felt time was right, he spoke up again.

“Pete, have you ever thought about… anxiety?”

Peter tensed, and Tony wanted to take it back. The moment had been so _pure_. Why had he popped that bubble?

Slowly, Peter pushed himself back up to an independent position.

“I don’t have it,” he answered quietly. “All this is normal. I know it is. I’m not crazy.”

“No one said you were,” Tony responded heartedly, horrified that his kid could even _think_ that. “No one said you were. I have anxiety, kid. Do you think _I’m_ crazy?”

Peter’s heat shot up to meet Tony’s eyes, and he gave a small smirk before looking away. “Yeah, kid, I have anxiety.”

“But you’re so _strong_.”

Tony smiled and brought his gaze back to meet his kid.

“Anxiety doesn’t mean you’re _weak_ , kid. It doesn’t define you.”

Peter still looked lost.

“Listen, kid, these symptoms you show? That’s anxiety.”

Peter looked taken aback.

“No. No, I _don’t_ have anxiety.” His voice was stronger, like he was trying to convince someone he was telling the truth - probably himself. “Everyone does these things. I’m normal.”

Tony shook his head sadly, causing Peter’s mouth to fall open slightly, tears coming to the corner of his eyes.

“But, listen, Pete,” he hurried to console, before Peter’s thoughts went too off-track. “This doesn’t mean you’re any less normal, and less _strong_ . And I _definitely_ don’t think any less of you. Anyone who _does_ can face Ironman.”

“And War Machine.”

Tony looked up in surprise when a voice spoke from the doorway. He saw Rhodey leaning there casually, hands in his pockets, looking down on the pair with a relaxed smile on his face, the one he always wore when talking to Peter. There was no pity, no sympathy, and once again Tony was glad he had chosen his friends he had.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help but overhear. But Peter, this is nothing to be ashamed of, you know? I have anxiety. Heck, I bet every single one of the Avengers does.”

“Really?” It was just one word, two syllables, barely above a whisper, but Tony could still hear the hope inside it. The hint of a smile creeping up the kid’s cheeks.

He smiled at Rhodey gratefully, and he gave a slight nod back.

“Of course, kid.”

Suddenly, Bruce was there on the opposite side of the doorway.

“I have anxiety too,” he contributed quietly, having difficulty meeting the pair’s eyes. A small gasp from Peter gave him the encouragement to continue. “Yeah. I mean, living this life, who wouldn’t? But, listen, Pete, you can’t let it control you. When it became too much for me, I tried to escape to Calcutta. I couldn’t face myself. I lived in denial.”

Tony stared incredulously at the scientist. He had never heard him speak so _openly_ before.

But Tony guessed he wasn’t the only one who felt this strongly for the kid. The whole team would die for him in a heartbeat; this he knew for a fact.

“I didn’t realize I could’ve found an entire support team right here. But more importantly, I didn’t realize that my anxiety was _not_ a defect. It was just one aspect of me that I wrongfully let win. You can’t do the same.”

Tony watched Bruce with wide eyes for a moment after he finished.

“I feel like I should be applauding that.”

Bruce scoffed and looked away awkwardly, embarrassed.

Suddenly, Natasha was there behind the pair, the doorway beginning to look cramped.

“I don’t have anxiety,” she started, and Peter deflated. Tony was ready to glare at her, but he waited to hear what she was going to say next. He had learned by now to trust her.

Granted, if what she said next wasn’t completely stupid.

“I _do_ have a laundry list of other defects, though. Heck, we all do. But we’re all still here.” She held her arms out as if to present the small group that had formed, crammed around the entrance to the bathroom, and Tony let a small smile play on his lips. Judging by the easier breathing that came from Peter, it had been the right thing to say.

Suddenly, Steve was there, too.

“I saw a crowd forming. What’s happening here?”

  * ••



Soon after the small crowd had retreated to the living room with Clint, Sam, and Thor joining them on the way, all were seated on the couches, Peter in the centremost seat, Tony’s arm wrapped comfortingly around him.

“Now,” Tony spoke up once they all had been seated, “Whose turn was it?”

Everyone felt like rolling their eyes at Tony’s need to make every situation into a lighthearted joke, but none did, instead letting Clint begin his spiel.

“I have kids, Peter. You don’t think it kills me every time I have to step away from them? You don’t think it haunts my mind every second of every minute of every day I go without seeing them?” He paused for a moment, looking down. “But I keep going, I keep _fighting_ , for them. Because I know it’s something I have to do. I can’t let my fear hold me back.”

Then, it was Sam’s turn.

“Military officer-turned-Avenger. So much stuff going on under here, you know?” He knocked twice on his head for emphasis. “I hide it, but it’s there, and you can quote me on that.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so persistent to hide it.” He shrugged. “Whatever. But, you’re not alone, Peter, okay? Remember that. You’ve got the Avengers behind you.”

As if to support that statement, Steve Rogers, the poster child of perfection, the essential head of the Avengers, cleared his throat.

“‘Captain America.’ Such a heavy name, right?” Peter nodded, a subconscious response to being asked a question with such an obvious answer. “Yeah, everyone else seems to think so, too. They expect me to be strong, and confident, and always ready for anything. You want the truth?”

No response from Peter this time. This answer wasn’t so obvious. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

What if the great Captain America looked _weak_ to him after, like Peter was sure he now looked to all of them, his idols? Could he stand such a drastic change?

“I have anxiety. And PTSD. And nightmares. And probably a bunch of other stuff I can’t even name. I crashed a plane into frozen water coated in ice. Was _frozen_ in said ice for almost 70 years. Lost a friend, got him back, lost him again. Do you think any less of me?”

Peter was surprised to find that he… _didn’t_. The man sitting before him, staring intently though not unkindly with his bright blue eyes, still held the same awe for Peter that he always did.

Suddenly, everyone turned to Thor, who just looked startled.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what this _anxiety_ is,” his usually loud voice spoke softly, “but I do know what it’s like to feel weak. My brother died in my arms - or, _‘died’-_ ” (he used air quotes, which Peter smiled at, proud to see it had caught on) “-many times, over and over, and each time was no worse than the last. I always found it hard to continue, and I thought that made me weak, that I couldn’t move on.”

He paused then and smiled brightly at the group, and Peter couldn’t keep the small smile from growing on his own face - Thor’s smiles were always so _contagious_.

“But it only made me stronger. Because each time, I stood up again, and here I am today.”

Thor leaned back contently, casting one last encouraging glance to Peter before lowering his eyes slightly, indicating he had finished.

“My turn? Oh, okay,” Tony spoke suddenly from beside Peter, but Peter refused to make eye contact. What would Tony say now? What did he _have_ to say? Sure, Tony had _said_ he had anxiety, but he couldn’t have meant it. He must’ve only been saying it to make Peter feel better.

Tony was the strongest man Peter knew. There was no way he was bothered by something as small as _anxiety_.

“You know me, kid. Daddy issues. I made a company that manufactured weapons that terrorized the world and induced war for _years_. Got bombed. Shrapnel to the chest. Wasn’t fun. Was imprisoned in a cave in a war-torn country. Had my own suits used against me. Wormhole.” Tony fought to suppress a shudder, hoping Peter hadn’t noticed.

(He had. And worried profoundly.)

“You don’t think I have anxiety, kid? I have that and so much more. PTSD. Nightmares that Capsicle over here’s nightmares would be terrified of.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

Tony just held up a hand.

“My turn to speak now.”

Tony turned his body entirely so he was facing Peter, gently turning the kid’s chin with his fingers to face him. He wanted to make sure Peter understood, that there was absolutely _no doubt_ in his mind about what Tony was trying to say.

“Do you think any less of me?”

Peter was quick to shake his head, looking disgusted at the implication. At Tony’s smirk, he blushed and looked down, embarrassed.

Yeah, he understood now.

“Hey.” Tony gently lifted his head for a third time that night. “I love you, kiddo, okay? We all do.” A quick scan of the room showed seven heads nodding in agreement. “This is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to hold back. I promise you. We will support you no matter what.” Peter was crying now, tears streaming down his face as he leaned forwards into Tony’s arms, gripping him like a lifeline.

Ideally, he would be hugging every single member of his family right now too, but he didn’t have the mental strength to do that. Right now, he hoped only Tony would do.

“How about in the morning we discuss therapy, yeah?” Peter nodded against Tony’s chest, no longer scared of what that word held.

He had the entirety of the Avengers behind him - his family.

He could handle whatever came next.

“Thank you,” he whispered quietly, and Tony smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head, at the base of his curls.

“I love you, kiddo. So much.”

Not long after, Peter went to bed, and, for the first time in a long time, he fell asleep without an issue, smiling into his pillow, thinking about his family.

The next morning, Peter awoke to a new scene. The wall to the right of his bed was no longer covered in baby blue paint, but in… bright yellow _Post-it_ Notes.

Groggily, Peter sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and grabbed one, reading the words he saw written there.

_You are so strong. -NR_

Peter held a hand to his mouth, hiding the toothy, wide-mouthed smile that appeared there, blinking back happy tears as he put it back and read another one.

_Believe in yourself. -SR_

They covered the entirety of the wall, from end to end, top to bottom, so that Peter couldn’t see _any_ blue beneath it. (He wondered how they had done it so quietly without waking him up. Then he realized he was essentially dealing with a group of spies and assassins.)

Peter spent the entirety of the next morning reading through the notes, and though he didn’t read it yet, he would soon. The one in the center, signed by _TS_ -

_You are worth so much more than you know. Never give up._


End file.
